


Solitude

by zeta_leonis



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I'm sorry this took so long to post, Kinda, M/M, Rated Explicit for later chapters, Saphael, Simon is 16 and Raphael is 22, Slow Burn, Tags to be added, Underage - Freeform, gaaaAAAY, homeless!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeta_leonis/pseuds/zeta_leonis
Summary: "He feels an odd connection with the teenager, in the sense that they are both lonely in a way. It is like an aura you can sense on a person, and Raphael can, he already has. Maybe in different measures, in different ways, but still a sort of feeling that one does not often share with most people, a special sort of instantaneous bond."Raphael knows not of riches - not anymore at least. He grows to appreciate the small things, for life is both too short and too long, and small things are the only things that come to him. Simon, however, is the biggest thing to happen to him yet.In which Simon is inadvertently thawing at Raphael's frozen heart.





	

He pulls the blanket tighter, drawing it closer around himself with trembling fingers. His body shakes, and he watches his breath swirl up into the sky. He curses himself for not being fast enough, for not being able to make it on time to the homeless shelter _.  _ Now he has to sleep on the street. The flattened cardboard box he lies on and the thin blanket offer no protection from the raging wind nor from the biting cold. The tremors get worse as night settles in, the sun now disappearing behind the horizon, casting its last orange glows on the skyscrapers that pierce the now darkening sky. 

But strangely, no stars shine down upon the city. The moon does not take its place in the sky, and it does not shine down needlessly on a city that glows in bright artificial light. 

Dark clouds that seemingly appear out of nowhere now veil the city, an omen of bad time, an omen of - 

The heavens seem to part, and in the blink of an eye, a downpour Raphael has only ever seen a handful of times in his life begins. He groans loudly, using the cardboard box he was lying on as a makeshift hut as he puts it over his head. It doesn't work. In a few minutes, the cardboard is drenched, and his hair is wet, icy cold droplets streaming down his face. 

All he can do is cast the box away and pull the blanket over himself, knowing it won't do much, but there is nothing else he can do. 

Faintly, he notices a light turning on beside him, coming from the building he's sleeping against. 

“Hey!” he hears, a voice that can be barely heard over the rain. 

“You, the person lying on the floor!” 

Raphael almost can't be bothered to pull the wet blanket off, but he does, slowly, and turns to look at the person calling. 

It's a boy. He's tall, with brown hair and light hazel eyes. His features aren't easy to make out in this lighting, but he's smiling, a warm, soft smile. 

“You can come in! I don't think you’d like to stay out in this weather.” 

The boy is a teenager, but his voice still keeps some of that melodic lull from childhood. Raphael frowns, but he stands slowly. He bunches the blanket in his hands and follows the boy into the building. 

It's a modest cafe, with a bar and a few booths set up against the window. It glows with a bright yellow light, and along the walls above the windows are shelves stocked with books. 

Raphael shakes his head, and tiny droplets of water splash around. 

“Would you like to give me your clothes? They're wet.” the boy offers, and Raphael simply nods, peeling out of his jacket and sweater. It could be a trap, and he can't fully trust this boy, what with all the aggression towards the homeless that's been going on lately. But still - he can't seem to be able to say no to the offer: a temporary shelter from the rain. The boy takes his clothes and, after flashing him a smile, disappears after a door. 

Raphael is left waiting, wondering what he'll do with his clothes. They're the only ones he has. 

The boy comes back out with a sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he offers them to Raphael sheepishly. “The bathroom’s over there.” he signals, pointing to his left. 

The older man takes the warm clothes and heads towards the bathroom. 

Once he's in the new clothes (which smell amazing, something between clean and cinnamon) he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s got some stubble, and his hair is longer, falling over his cheekbones and past his ears. 

It's curly and greasy. It's completely knotted up too, he notices as he runs his fingers through it. 

He feels better now, not quite as wet nor cold. 

“Do they fit?” the boy asks, playing with his hands nervously. Raphael doesn't tell him that they're a bit tight around the shoulders and chest, and instead says, “They fit perfectly.”

“That - that's good to hear.” the boy says, flushing red. “Um - please, take a seat. I'll be back soon.” 

Raphael looks around and chooses the one that's the farthest away from the door, from the potential source of noise and disruption. 

He taps his fingers on the table and waits, looking outside of the window. He puts his fingers around the cross that hangs on his neck and thanks God. 

The boy comes back from what Raphael supposes is the kitchen, with a steaming hot bowl of something that smells amazing, and looks even better. A soup or stew of some kind. 

“I - I made this.” the boy says, and hands him a spoon. Raphael takes it, and tentatively dips it into the soup. He drinks it without even blowing on it, feeling it burn as it passes down his chest, but the taste of meat lingers in his mouth, warm, the best he's had in a long time.

The boy looks at him expectantly, biting his nails. Raphael looks up, meeting his gaze. 

“It's really good.” he states, meaning it. “The best I've had in a long time.” The boy smiles, now glowing in delight. Raphael doesn't tell him that he was so hungry at that point that anything would have tasted like the best meal on Earth.

The boy slides into the booth in front of him, but not before taking a book from one of the shelves. Raphael chugs down his soup in big gulps, trying to make the least amount of noise possible. At one point, halfway through his soup, he realises he shouldn't rush it so much, or it'll be over too soon. Also, the boy is sending him odd looks over his book. 

“What's your name?” the boy asks, almost timidly. 

Raphael looks up, but doesn't meet his eyes. He has a debate in his head: should he trust this stranger? He briefly looks down at himself, around the café, at his bowl. Yes. 

“Raphael. Raphael Santiago.” 

The boy blinks twice and lowers the book before replying. “Mine is Simon.” he looks down at the table. “Simon Lewis.”

“Simon,” Raphel repeats, as if he was savouring each syllable. “It suits you, somehow.” 

Simon makes no comment, and instead goes back to reading. He hides behind his book, most likely to hide his blush.

Raphael finishes his food, feeling sated. Simon looks up again, and puts the book down in a rush, almost slamming it on the table. 

“Do you want anything else?” he asks, straightening his clothes out. “Warm coffee, chocolate, tea?” Simon asks frantically, hastily taking Raphael’s bowl in his hand. Out of politeness, he doesn't want to  _ ask  _ Simon for anything, but he hasn't had a hot chocolate in so long…

“I'll - uh - have a hot chocolate, please.” Raphael mumbles, almost uncomfortable. 

“Coming right up!” Simon says, almost too enthusiastically. Raphael wonders what he's nervous about, exactly. 

He taps on the table with his fingers, looks out the window. The downpour is still going on, no longer silenced by his own slurping noises. He  glances at Simon's book - he's halfway through. Raphael pulls it closer so he can read the title. 

_ ‘The Song of Achilles’.  _ He’s never heard of it, but it sounds interesting. 

“Here you go.” Simon says, snapping Raphael out of his trance. The chocolate smells extremely enticing, making his mouth water. There's a layer of whipped cream and chocolate shavings on it. Raphael is pretty sure he's drooling.

“Thank you,” he murmurs appreciatively, then sips at the steaming mug, not caring for how it scalds his hands. He welcomes it, in fact. He burns his upper lip when the chocolate reaches his mouth under the cream, but it’s worth it for how it tastes, how it warms him more than the soup. Part of it is nostalgia, he thinks. 

Simon sits across from him again, and takes up the book once more. 

“Do you like reading?” Raphael asks. He knows it’s an obvious question, but he needs something to break the ice. He wants to get to know this boy remotely, seeing as how he owes him so much now.

Simon looks at him. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t have much time for it though, so I mainly do it a few hours after closing.”

Raphael nods silently, sipping at his chocolate. He needs to find something else to say. “What’s your favourite genre?”

“Um…” Simon puts a finger on his chin. “I don’t know. If a book is interesting, I’ll read it. I don’t have a specific genre I like above others, but I usually tend to read more sci-fi/fantasy books, that sort of stuff. I also really like comic books.”

Raphael keeps drinking his hot chocolate now that it’s cooled down. He wants to keep the conversation going, as it’s the first proper one he’s had in months. 

“I like reading, too. My mom would read with me, as a child. I’d read to her later on, whenever I could.” Raphael stops himself there. Simon is absorbing the information like a sponge, his eyes hungry for more information, but that isn’t a good sign. Raphael usually isn’t so trusting, so open about his personal life. He feels like Simon is trustworthy, and gets nothing but good vibes from him, but maybe his judgement is clouded by the clear bias he feels towards him: after all, he did just save his life in a way. And if not such a grand gesture, then he just did a grand gesture born from what Raphael imagines is compassion. He hasn’t felt that much lately - at least from other people towards him. 

“How old are you?” Raphael asks, steering the conversation away from himself again. 

“I’m sixteen...” Simon doesn’t seem uncomfortable but - embarrassed, somehow?

Raphael would rather not say his own age, fearing making Simon uncomfortable. 

“I know it seems stupid,” Simon breaks the silence, leaning forwards on his elbows. “But do you like the rain?”

Raphael doesn’t know how to answer. He’s never been asked this before. He’s used to other kinds of questions, but never anything like this. It’s not like he’s had a normal conversation with anyone as of late, what with the whole not having a job or a house or anything at all. He still keeps his wallet, which carries his identification, but just that. It’s as empty as his heart has felt for the last few years. His heart is not  _ empty, per se -  _ it is frozen, alive under the thick sheets of ice that have been building up for years. 

“Yes, actually. But, uh, when I’m indoors.”  _ Not like I do get that very much lately. _ Raphael smiles the smallest bit. “By the way, there’s no such thing as a stupid question in my opinion. Only stupid people.”

“That’s a good life philosophy, I guess.” Simon replies, and discreetly goes back to hiding behind his book. Raphael downs the rest of the chocolate before it gets cold, and puts the mug back down, turning to look at the violent storm going on outside. The howling wind can be heard from the inside of the café as raindrops lash at the window mercilessly. Raphael dreads going outside, but he has no choice. 

“Thank you,” Raphael mumbles hoarsely. “I can’t pay you back, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.” 

Simon looks up, startled. “What? You needn’t pay me back, really.”

“I should get going.” Raphael stands, gulping at the sight outside. 

“You’re not going out in this weather.” Simon puts his book down on the table. 

“I have nowhere to go.”

Simon closes his eyes and bites his lip, his forehead creasing as he thinks. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes again. “I have a place where you can stay the night.”

“Really?” Raphael looks hopeful. 

“This way, please.” Simon says, and turns on his heel, leading Raphael through the door he’d seen Simon go through earlier. They go up some dark stairway, and the air smells of old and dust.

They end up reaching another door, and once they go through, Raphael can make out a few things in the dark: a bed and a wardrobe. There’s a window to the right. Simon tugs on a string, and the lightbulb on the ceiling comes on, washing everything in dim light. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, with the headboard pressed against the light yellow wall. There’s a wardrobe on the far left, and a few cardboard boxes here and there. There’s a radiator next to the bed, one of the plug-in ones with bright red lights, and a desk and a chair under the window.

“It’s our spare room,” Simon explains, walking in and beginning to clear the dust accumulated on the bed. Raphael wants to help, but Simon doesn’t let him, shaking his head. “we don’t use it often.”

“Oh.”

Raphael doesn’t know what to say. The idea of sleeping in a proper bed has not been more than a mere dream for a year now - and much less with heating. They hear the rumble of the storm outside, see the lightning that strikes the buildings of New York that stand tall, as if challenging nature. 

“Please, be my guest.” Simon gestures towards the bed. His voice is soft and his eyes are kind, doing something to Raphael’s heart. This is the first act of kindness he’s been shown in so long, and it’s incredibly inviting. 

“I don’t - I can’t -” Raphael stutters, aghast. He’s at a loss for words. 

“‘You can’t’ what?” Simon asks, hands on his hips. 

“I don’t know how to repay you.”  _ I don’t know how to thank you for this.  _

“You don’t have to, really. Please, just - get in the bed. It’s late.” Simon says, and pulls back the sheets. 

The older man hesitates, just slightly. He can feel Simon’s pleading eyes on him, not judging, but willing him to accept the kindness he’s being offered. He wants to - inexplicably - pull Simon into his arms and hold him there, the only payment he can offer as of now, a strange sort of comfort, to which of them he does not know. He feels an odd connection with the teenager, in the sense that they are both lonely in a way. It is like an aura you can sense on a person, and Raphael can, he already has. Maybe in different measures, in different ways, but still a sort of feeling that one does not often share with most people, a special sort of instantaneous bond. 

He decides to give in to the pleading eyes. 

Raphael gets in the bed slowly, feeling strange as Simon watches. He pulls the sheets on, and as soon as his head hits the pillow, he’s almost gone, lost to fatigue and the comfort of the bed. 

“Goodnight,” Simon says when he’s at the door and he’s turned the light off. 

Raphael wants to reply, but he’s almost asleep. 

Outside, the storm rages on.

 

…

 

Simon goes downstairs as quietly as possible, hearing the old floorboards creak with every step. He does not think Raphael can hear, as he is already in deep sleep, but Simon does not wish to rouse him from his slumber. He has had enough, he thinks. 

Simon has no idea why he invited him in, as it is something he rarely does. It is not that Simon isn’t inclined to random acts of kindness, because he is, and they are never random - he does it quite often in fact. He has brought home cooked meals to the homeless before, volunteered in shelters, and his dog was an abandoned puppy when he found him. But he has never invited one into his home, into his space. The café isn’t his home exactly - here is where he works and studies to pay his parents back for what his college is going to cost - but it is  _ his  _ personal space in a way, and never once has he invited someone upstairs, offered them free food within the walls of the tiny café. 

He felt it in his stomach though - an odd tug, a strange pull, when he saw the stranger properly. It wasn’t simple attraction (though there was some of that) but rather like a magnetic, electric, primal drive, something odd that surged from within him upon laying his eyes properly on Raphael. He cannot name this feeling, he has no words to describe what’s going on inside him, in his mind, the same way one cannot come up with a new colour for it cannot exist if it has never been seen, one cannot come up with a name for a feeling they have never felt before. 

Simon is tired from thinking once he has finished cleaning tables and dishes. 

He leaves a note for Raphael before he leaves, and he turns off the lights and locks up, exhausted. 

His car is parked outside, and he runs for it, not wanting to stay in this weather any longer than he has to. 

Instead of abandoning himself to thought any longer, he turns the music up all the way and listens to it, lets it fill the emptiness he is feeling. 

He’s so distracted by it, in fact, that he doesn’t see the car coming at him, and he yanks the steering wheel at the last second, the car swerving dangerously, skidding on the dark road. He can vaguely hear the sound of the other car honking at him as he shuts off the radio, panting to regain his breath, adrenaline still racing in his blood. 

_ Damn Raphael.  _

When he gets back home, his parents are on the couch, watching TV. He kisses them both on the cheek, and says nothing of the man currently sleeping in the café spare room. They never go there anyway; they’ll never know. 

In his bed, he turns to look at the storm, at the water droplets racing each other down the window. He will not allow Raphael to be the last thing he thinks of before he goes to sleep, so instead he thinks of the rain. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
